Memories and Remorse
by Rosea
Summary: The thoughts of Ginger's father years after he left for better life. One-shot only and not a happy ending.


Angsty one-shot which I wrote after reading 'End of an Era' by Biggles Mad. I had also just read a lot of angst fic, so I was feeling all dark and brooding.

There's stuff out there about how Ginger felt about his father, but what about the other's point to view.

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Dan Hebblethwaite stared into the sullenly glowing coals in the fireplace in front of him. Coal. Always coal. He spent all day digging it out of the ground, then all night burning it in his fireplace. He glared at the few flickering flames rising out of the lumps and took another long swig from the bottle of beer in his hand. Sick to death of the sight of it, but can't live without it, he thought. The bottle in his hand seemed to sympathise. He took another gulp and realised that he had emptied it. Could he be bothered getting another one? Yes, another one to help him drown out all the memories, all the feelings he didn't want to acknowledge.

He rose and deposited the empty bottle in the overflowing bin. There wasn't much in it except empty beer bottles. Nor was there much in the larder apart from beer. The bread was stale, the cheese was mouldy and the few vegetables that were in there were limp and inedible. He really should clean it out, but not today. He took another bottle, opened it, and took a pull. That was better.

As he staggered back to his chair he glanced up at the mantle piece. His wife smiled down on him, a loving, but somehow sad smile. He felt a twinge of guilt. She knew what he had done, and she knew what he was doing. Her eyes forgave him, which made it worse. How could she forgive him when he couldn't forgive himself? Their son was gone, their only child and it was his fault. He stared at the photograph, now faded with age. She had loved the boy so much, she had held him in her arms as a baby and sung to him, but it didn't make any difference. No matter how much she loved him, it didn't change the fact that he had killed her. She had never recovered properly from the birth, the doctors had muttered something about blood poisoning and she had never regained her full strength. The boy had only been two years old when she had died. He had grown stronger, she had grown weaker, fading away because of him.

Dan felt familiar, unwanted tears prick his eyes. His son had taken his beloved away from him, and for the next 13 years, he had taken his revenge. Dan drained the bottle of beer and sat down. She wouldn't have approved of what he had done, where she had given the boy love, Dan had given him anger.

God, the boy looked so much like her. That was the hardest part. Every time he saw the lad he saw his wife's face, her hair, her eyes, and it had hurt. It hurt so much that all Dan wanted was to spread the hurt around. At the best of times he had ignored the boy, providing for him as necessary, but ignoring him the rest of the time. At the worst of times, when he had been drinking, trying to forget, the boy came upon him, he had lashed out in fury. He remembered those times only too vividly, the boy cowering away, trying to protect himself as Dan took to him with his belt or his fist, while he worked all the anger and hurt out on him. He remembered that when it was over and the boy had escaped, he had felt so ashamed of himself and had drunk more in an effort to force the remorse back down again.

Now the boy was gone, gone away never to return. Dan had driven him away, washed his hands of him, told him that he no longer cared if he lived or died. That had been the final straw. When the boy had come back with the man he had found to replace him and asked his blessing as he went to seek a new life for himself in the south, Dan had raged at him and then seen the resignation in the boy's eyes. The last chance he had for reconciliation with his only son, and he had thrown it away. Dan had signed the papers, turning guardianship over to the fancy flier from London, his heart numb, and then they had walked out of his life forever.

For a moment he wanted to run after them, to beg the boy's forgiveness for everything he had done, but he couldn't. He couldn't expose his weakness to the world, he couldn't bend enough to tell him that in spite of everything, he still loved him.

Dan took his wife's photo of the mantelpiece, "I failed, Alice," he said to her, "I've failed at everythin'."

She smiled at him. Dan put her back carefully and leaned his head against the mantle, staring at the fire, dreaming of what could have been.


End file.
